


Brothers Not In Blood

by havocthecat



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Brotherhood, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-01
Updated: 1999-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havocthecat/pseuds/havocthecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 'how it might have happened' for when Methos and Kronos meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers Not In Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 1999, posted in an archive lost to the depths of the internet, and later [mirrored on LJ](http://havocthecat.livejournal.com/373076.html).

"I suppose," wrote the man, who had no idea how he knew to write when so many could not, "I am a man of magic," he continued, praying to whatever Gods would listen for even a hint as to his past. "For I have no recollection of my past and barely a memory of my name. I have only a future that I cannot contemplate an ending to--for I cannot die."

He set his stylus aside and rubbed his eyes. Having virtually no memory of one's past could be somewhat disconcerting. He couldn't remember much, which didn't bother him unless he needed the knowledge--and he hadn't, not for many seasons. Lately, however, he'd felt another of his kind, one who intrigued him. He was sure he'd known this one before, or had heard of him, at the very least, but try as he might, all he could remember were the Rules of his kind, and the soft voice which he knew had first told him of them. His teacher, he supposed it was.

The other one was staying well-hidden, only revealing himself when there were crowds about. It was safest, he supposed, for their kind not to confront each other directly, as the result was generally death. He himself was not in the habit of granting mercy to his enemies--he never had been, he knew that much, or had at least deduced it based on his treatment of his adversaries since waking from another death alone and unknowing in this strange land.

There would come a time, he supposed, when he would meet his counterpart in battle. Perhaps then he would lose his head, or perhaps he would take another head to add to his collection. It was becoming difficult to keep track of how many he'd killed. The most recent was the serving girl from the inn at the center of town. She hadn't known what she was, and she certainly hadn't connected her sudden headache with his appearance in the taproom. He'd taken her home and toyed with her a bit, killing her over and over, watching her beg to be released from his dark sorceries.

She'd asked his name. He was a stranger in her city, new to it when so many of its inhabitants had been born here--and their parents--and so on for many generations. "I am Death," he had told her. He had been Death for a long while, and he was good at it. Torture, rape, murder--it was power, and it was power that he enjoyed. It was power that...helped him forget he'd once been powerless? He shook himself. Some memories were best left untouched.

He enjoyed the kind of power he could wield. Finding one of his kind--taking their life, their Quickening, exhilarated him. He would hunt them first, run them to the ground and slay them, again and again until they begged him to stop. He would have them sobbing, unable to remember anything but the pain. They would do anything he asked, anything at all, just to get him to leave them alone. Some of his best house slaves were Immortal. It saved the bother of training new ones every lifetime or so.

He'd considered toying with the new Immortal this way, breaking him or her, but had decided against it. When one of his kind was careful enough to avoid being spotted, that person was generally knowledgeable enough that it was best to take their head quickly and avoid risk. "I cannot imagine what will become of me if I survive," he wrote. "If the Gods are willing, I may survive a thousand years or more."

The buzzing--the disorientation--whatever it was that marked another of his kind--came upon him. He was bold, this other one, coming so near. The man looked out the window, and saw the other one for the first time. He was standing in the mouth of an alley, across the square. The man was taller than most, as tall as he himself was, and with a scar across one of his eyes. He had a calm, knowing expression on his face, and when he saw that he was being observed, he stepped back into the shadows of the alley.

The newcomer was still there, half-visible, when the man walked out of his house, sheathed sword in hand. He didn't back away as the man crossed the square, challenge in his eyes. They both made their way further into the alley, away from the prying eyes of the local populace.

"Well," said the other Immortal, half-grinning. "Another one. I was beginning to think I was the only one around."

"Hardly," said the man. "There are always more of us."

"So I'm finding out," he said. "So, who do I have the pleasure of fighting?" He unsheathed the sword slung across his back.

"Death," said the man, drawing his sword and flinging the sheath to the side, where it would not interfere. "Whether yours or mine, I can't really say."

The other shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it. It's the way of the Game." They circled each other warily.

"Is that all it is for you?" He feinted, pursing his lips when his opponent parried him skillfully. He was glad now that he hadn't tried to hunt this one. "A game?"

"Yes." The other man laughed. "A game, one with the best reward imaginable--power!" He lunged.

The man parried quickly. This one's skill nearly matched his own. "I like the way you think, man." He focused on blocking, rather than attacking.

"I have a name, you know," he said, lowering his sword. "And so do you, if I don't mistake my guess."

The man let his sword drop to his side. "Yes." He paused. "Shall we discuss this over some ale?"

"Of course, friend. If there's a name I can call you."

"Methos," said the man. He'd been Death for so long he'd almost forgotten he had another name. "And you?"

"Kronos," said the man. "Shall we?"

They sheathed their swords, walked out of the alley, and became fast friends.

\--end--


End file.
